Lions, Wolves, and Broken Pasts
by Awesome Authors Coalition
Summary: Ned Stark and Jaime Lannister are both men who've lost everything. But at their lowest points, they find themselves traveling to an all-too-malleable past—and neither of them are alone. [Time Travel Collab, Canon Pairings]
1. Jaime (I)

_"I crossed a thousand leagues to come to you, and lost the best part of me along the way. Don't tell me to leave."_

* * *

 **Jaime Lannister**

* * *

The blinding pain in his head faded to a dull ache. Jaime opened his eyes and saw that he was dreaming. Slowly, Jaime flexed his sword-hand, marveling at the dexterity of every individual finger. He rotated his wrist and grasped the air like a sword. A soft moan distracted him from his hand, and Jaime glanced to the side.

Cersei lay beside him, the curves of her body bared to the world, her pink-tipped breasts pressed against his arm. Her golden mane draped across her shoulder, framing her face—it looked younger now, without the faint lines of stress and hardship. His sister always did look so peaceful in slumber. That was the only time she ever did.

How cruel was the world, he mused, to take away everything he wanted, only to give it back when he slept?

The ground spun under him, and Jaime staggered out of bed like a drunkard, emptying the contents of his stomach into the corner of his rooms. He heaved, eyes closed as his body rebelled against him. Trembling, sword-hand cradled to his chest, Jaime opened his eyes, expecting reality.

"Jaime? Is something the matter?" The husky, sluggish voice of Cersei caused a fresh jolt of pain. Had she called to Lancel in the same way? To Osmund Kettleblack?

He stumbled back to the bed, content with having the dream continue. The downy covers seemed excessively soft after sleeping on the ground for so long. Jaime stared, first at his hand, then at his sister.

Lashes accentuating her emerald eyes, Cersei peered at him with concern. "Jaime?" she repeated. "Are you feeling ill?"

He shook his head slowly.

"Well, in that case," her tone turned mischievous, "why don't you join me in bed?"

Jaime shook his head again. No. Never. Not after what she'd done. Not after what their children had done. Not even in his dreams. In some ways, the death of Joffrey had been just—though his sister's false accusations of Tyrion were anything but.

Cersei pouted at him, feigned hurt covering her annoyance. "Well, I suppose it can wait. I was going to tell you after, but…" a spark of excitement entered her eyes, "I might as well tell you now."

"What is it?" he said, emotionless. Jaime's patience for games had long eroded.

She wrapped her arm around his waist and drew him closer. Cersei pressed her soft lips against his ear, and in a coy murmur that didn't hide her exhilaration, said, "I'm with child. And it's yours."

A wave of revulsion swept over him, and Jaime thought he'd be sick for the second time.

"What?" he whispered. Oh, the gods were _cruel_ to make him remember this.

His sister mistook his horror for simple shock.

"Yes, yes, it's true!" She giggled with elation. "No Baratheon will sit on the throne. None of that damned man's offspring. Instead, it will be _our_ child, just how it was meant to be!"

His dream was too vivid, too focused, too _long_. It had a tinge of reality and _pain_ that he'd never experienced before. Jaime pushed aside the panic welling inside him. If this dream wouldn't end on its own, he'd do it himself.

Ignoring Cersei's rambling, Jaime leaned over, grabbing the knife that his sister always kept by her bedside. He ran a shaking finger (one from his sword hand) over the edge of the blade. He pressed harder, just hard enough to feel the bite of the dagger. Jaime twisted it, letting the flat of the blade rest on his palm. His vision began to swim as he saw the letters on the blade.

 _Dreams are another way for gods to fuck with us,_ Tyrion had once said to him, back when their family was whole. _Sometimes, they're impossible to tell from reality. But the words—they'll tell you the truth. You can't read them in dreams._

The etched words on the dagger gleamed, wavering, but legible: _Hear me roar!_

"Fuck." Jaime felt the world fall from under him.

"Jaime? You're scaring me. Stop it!" She reached for him, but he roughly pushed her aside. He lurched to his feet, one step after another, falling against the door frame, grasping it for support. Cersei called out to him, panicked, but Jaime payed her no heed.

He stepped outside the room, his back to the wall, the stones cold against his naked skin.  
 _  
It's not a dream._

Jaime pressed his hands to his face and shuddered. He was… he was in the past. Before his children and the War of Five Kings and the loss of his hand. Before Cersei's madness, Tyrion's anger, and his father's death. Before Brienne. Before _everything_.

He breathed in deeply and looked up. Standing several paces away, a plump and perfumed man looked back with nothing but careful curiosity on his face.

"Varys?" Jaime whispered.

The Lannister raised his sword hand, looking from his palm to the eunuch in front of him. And Jaime crashed to the ground, consciousness draining away as his mind desperately clutched for respite.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This is a collab between me ( **To Mockingbird** ) and my friend **Duesal Bladesinger**. We both have accounts on this website, so we decided to post our story on a wholly separate account. I'm doing Jaime's POV, while he'll handle Ned's. We'd really appreciate feedback from you guys!


	2. Eddard (I)

_"A madman sees what he sees."_

* * *

 **Eddard Stark**

* * *

Ned felt a sharp pain at the back of his neck, leaving him reeling as the world tumbled around him. Without warning, the worst nausea he'd ever encountered suddenly engulfed him, and he practically shot out of bed to vomit over the side. Feeling miserable, he finished retching, then slumped back into his bed and closed his eyes with an exhausted groan.

His eyes snapped right back open as he stiffened with realization. The girls! Arya was safe with Yoren, but Sansa was still a hostage!

Ned sat bolt-upright in an instant, then immediately regretted it as his nausea flared up again. After a few minutes of carefully inhaling and exhaling in measured breaths, his nausea died down for good, and he dared to open his eyes.

The familiar walls of his bedchambers greeted him. Not his chambers in the Tower of the Hand, but his old ones all the way north back in Winterfell. _Impossible_ , he thought. Winterfell was thousands of miles away. And even if an ally had somehow had the means of transporting him, there were still hundreds of Lannister men to get through, and not just to rescue him but his daughters as well.

However, a quick look out the window proved that yes, Winterfell was right outside, and King's Landing was nowhere to be seen. The air was cool and fresh just like he remembered it, free from the oppressive heat and stench of shit he'd come to know. Now utterly confused and increasingly alarmed, Ned looked around. Some of the tapestries were missing, like the one Cat had made of Brandon building the Wall, but the older ones from his father's time and before were still there. But where was Sansa? Where was Arya? Anxiety at the fate of his daughters was eating him alive.

Grunting, he prepared to go through the infuriating new ritual of massaging blood back into his crippled leg so he could rise up to find his girls. He paused, disbelief dominating his expression.

There was no crippled leg.

It felt like he was young again, strong and rippling with muscle, the aches and pains he'd collected over the years nowhere to be found. Hands shaking with his shock, he pulled down his breeches and examined the skin. Aside from old scars that seemed a bit more livid than he remembered, the angry red gash where the Lannister redcloak had pierced through his leg was gone. Vanished without a trace.

 _Magic_.

A chill crept up his spine as he stared at his leg. It was the only explanation. Magic to take him home in the face of certain death. Magic to heal a crippling wound. Almost in a haze, he stumbled out of bed and went out the door. Across the hall, he saw a beautiful young woman with a baby at her breast. Her shock of red hair burned in his vision, and Ned's blood ran cold.

" _Sansa?_ " he breathed. With a babe? No no _no_! Joffrey wouldn't dare!

 _But he would_ , a damning part of Ned whispered. _You **know** what he is. You know he could do it._

Just as he reached out for her, Sansa looked up at him in confusion, and Ned stopped in his tracks. She wasn't Sansa. Same hair, same eyes, same _features_ , but she simply wasn't his daughter. This woman—whoever she was—looked just as his wife had more than sixteen years ago.

"My lord?" the sheer coldness of her voice took him aback. "If you require nothing, I'd like to you leave."

Ned stared at the woman, stunned. Even his own _wife_ hadn't spoken to him so disrespectfully since he'd brought a baby Jon to Winterfell, and here this woman was daring to speak to him like this in his own castle.

Expression cooling and eyes frosting over, Ned growled, "And what, my lady, have I done to earn such disrespect from you?"

The woman's eyes flashed, and for a moment Ned thought she'd have the gall to try to slap him.

"You brought that _bastard_ here to be raised among our trueborn children!" she practically snarled at him. "That is what you have done you, faithless man! How could you?!"

Ned drew back as if struck. _Our_ trueborn children? "My lady, we are not married," he pointed out, speaking slowly in the voice he usually reserved for the dimwitted. "And if you persist in this delusion I will have thrown out of Winterfell." Gods knew Cat wouldn't take this kindly.

Catelyn's look-alike stared at him in utter shock. Then she _did_ try to slap him, and Ned caught her wrist easily.

"You monster!" she shrieked at him, struggling in his grip. More than one servant poked their head down the hall to see what was going on before quickly beating a hasty retreat. "You took my maidenhood! I gave you a son! Does that mean _nothing_ to you?!"

Ned sighed, in no mood for such histrionics. "My lady, I never—" Wait... A son?

He glanced down at the baby squirming irritably in the woman's grasp as she struggled against him. Ice flooded his veins. He _knew_ that child. He'd never once forgotten what any of his children looked like. There was no mistake, that baby boy in the woman's arms was achingly familiar, with his Tully features and his bright blue eyes.

" _Robb_ ," Ned breathed. And he let go of the woman and sank to his knees, holding his head as his mind struggled to understand. Robb was a man grown at sixteen, but Ned knew his son, and the baby was Robb. How how _how_? His confusion grew to the point of pain, ringing in his skull and shattering his focus.  
 _  
Never doubt the power of the nameless gods of trees and stone, sweet summer child_ , Old Nan had once said to him. _They are always watching us. They are real. They are here._

He looked up when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and found himself gazing into her eyes. She was furious with him, with how he'd insulted her, but her face betrayed her concern. He saw it now! She wasn't just any woman, she was Cat! His Cat!

"Cat," he croaked, his eyes suddenly brimming with tears. "Oh, Cat, I thought I'd never see you again."

"My lord?" She didn't know how to react, he could tell by the uncertainty of her tone, the hesitation in her posture.

"Cat, our daughters…" Ned slumped over, his exhausted mind finally giving out on him. The last thing he heard was his young wife screaming for the maester. Darkness claimed him.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hey guys! Duesal here. So Moki and I, as she's already told you, are writing this story as a dual time travel where she writes Jaime and I write Ned. A LOT of things will change. Ned and Jaime have zero interest in keeping the past the same after everything they've gone through. That being said, I hope you enjoy this collab!


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